


Tired Eyes

by consultingat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, Bit cliched but I had to, Broken Sherlock, Case Fic, Drug Addict Sherlock, Drugs, Eventual Johnlock, Feelings, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Sherlock, John is a Bit Not Good, Johnlock - Freeform, Lestrade is basically a father, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, OOC Sherlock, POV John Watson, PTSD Sherlock, Panic Attacks, Post TAB, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock-centric, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Trauma, Trigger Warnings, mental health, sherlock is much worse actually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-25 12:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7532335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingat221b/pseuds/consultingat221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first interesting crime to turn up since Moriarty reappeared forces Sherlock and John into dark territories. John has to learn a lot about Sherlock post Reichenbach and all the colours and complexities of their lives start to catch up with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Can You Hear Me? Am I Even Talking?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all (if these notes look long and rambly you are not obliged to read them!) There was a WIP I started nearly two years ago and I have recently taken it down. Anyhow, I never completed it and realised, meh, it was slightly shite. However, this story is one that shall be completed and has multiple chapters already written. So you can expect lots more to come. Its angst galore, so stick around if you like it. There's plans to update two or three times a week, when I'm not away. But please look after yourselves and pay attentions to the tags and warnings. Drugs and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder are common themes, and they are normally followed by a bunch of triggers.
> 
> Also do remember that I am not a professional. Writing is just a hobby and I only have research to help me out with medical terminology or crime stuff; any advice is greatly appreciated. Feel free to comment or ask for details if you want to help me improve this! British spellings apply.

Lights go down  
In the moment we're lost and found

\- _Wings_ , _Birdy_

* * *

 

It started out as a first-rate co-dependency. That was before all the challenges. The villains, absences and the wounds that had caught up with the pair. Now it was like singed coal, turned to dust, and nothing seemed to kindle it back to the start.

John had been watching him. Vigilantly. He had told him once that he only saw things at face value, but lacked the ability to explore in depth. But John couldn’t spend years struggling to stray his thoughts from wandering back to that one enigma, without picking up a few of the enigma’s abilities.

When he was in the flat, footsteps caught his attention. They’re often too heavy-footed to be Mrs Hudson. There’s a manic gait to them. It’s recognisable anywhere. He was used to hearing it in front of him, whilst he struggled to catch up.

With the return of a nemesis and Scotland Yards’ cases so inexplicably dull, there wasn’t much for them to talk over. Sherlock spent hours with him, nonspeaking. His shut eyes were so crinkled around the edges. John pictured them locked shut as his detective eyes rolled back into his head, desperately trying to zoom in and focus on something in his 'Mind Palace.' There's new crumples on his face. His skin is pale and malleable, like paper. Concern lines surround his irises and stress lines illustrate his forehead. They were all his own work of art. His own fabrication of pain, painted onto his skin.

He never seemed to find anything.

No sudden solutions, no mention of the deceased Moriartys next move and no motivation to pick a case from his inbox. Nothing productive. Nothing at all. Not much had happened since the they left the runway.

The mundanities of life were beginning to catch up with John.

When Sherlock wasn’t bordering on silence he was muttering useless information to himself, pacing the flat. And this normally happened come the evening – when John had to return to his duties of convincing his wife that he would be around enough to serve as a father.

 

 

 

One evening, after sleeping through the calm pulses of his phone vibrating, John woke to Mary's gentle touch. Then the cold mobile whacked his skin and reminded him, on one of his few peaceful nights, that he had tired eyes. He’d seen war, crime and pain to unimaginable levels – those are the things that cannot be unseen. Tired eyes don’t do serenity. And their owner’s do not function normally.

In retrospect, no soul in his life seemed to function typically.

During his sleep-wake state, he had not heard much from Mary. she whispered a collage of words that lacked meaning. The muffled baritone on the phone was enough to wake him up. He didn’t need to give Mary an explanation, it was two o’clock and it was Sherlock. she understood and gave him a nod. After all, she owed Sherlock a lot. John was out of the bed. Out of the sweaty, grey pajama bottoms and out of the house.

 

 

 

Old Street wasn’t an unconventional site for a murder. Especially back alleys like the one John found himself on. At the end of the bystreet he could see the familiar yellow haze of crime-scene tape, and the rough outline of a stressed DI.

“John,” he roared with contentment. “It’s good to see you, mate!”

“You too, Greg.” John had to refrain from smiling too much. He was glad to see his friend. Crime scenes weren’t a regularity between the pair and Scotland Yard anymore. However, it was important to not forget the sick etiquette that was appropriate when other officers were lurking nearby. “Storage unit?”

“Yeah, it’s a peculiar one, I’ll give them that.”

John forced a hum in agreement. Not much shocked him anymore, but this must have been decent to get Sherlock out of their flat.

“It’s protocol,” Lestrade continued. “After a tenant fails to pay their rent, Urban Locker staff open up the units and auction off any possessions that may be worth something. Toss away the junk. Despite some people storing meaningful shit in here.”

“Seems a bit worthless then: memories. Goodbye keepsakes.”

“Pessimism at a crime scene. That’s new.” John rolled his eyes at Lestrade’s sarcastic tone. “Anyway, erm, they opened up a locker earlier to find nothing but an occupied coffin. Grotesque, really. We were forced to open up each locker. Five bodies so far, separate containers, nothing to connect them but this unit. Good puzzle, though.”

“Okay that’s, yeah, that’s peculiar.” 

John took in the scene. There was a young man in uniform, one he hadn’t seen before; his breathing was heavier than anyone else. Most people who spent time on crime scenes learnt to keep themselves together, no matter the calamity that permeated the air. He felt bad for anyone who hadn't acclimatised to this sort of scene, but who were witnessing it. 

Everyone around seemed to suffer from tired eyes, though. It was a side effect of life that John had started to notice. He wasn't alone; no one around here was. But in big cities it was hard not to feel isolated.

The occasional droplet of summer rain added to the humid discomfort of the scene. John started to make his way towards the entrance. He wanted to arrive in the building, see Sherlock’s feet placed decisively at a shoulder-width apart. See his coat swaying in the open door wind, his disorderly mop of dark curls illuminating his defined cheekbones. Instead he felt pressure on his shoulder.

Lestrade edged him towards the concrete wall. “He’s not himself –”

“He –”

“Hasn’t been for a while, I know. But this is worse. The poor man’s –” he coughed to bide himself a moment to search for an apt word, “He’s all jittery, John.”

“I know.”

He hadn’t noticed it beforehand; he’d been preoccupied. Life got in the way.

Sherlock didn’t look like Sherlock. Something about him looked ragged. He had Sherlock’s hair and voice, but he was ripped around the edges. John wanted to hold on to his friend until his knuckles went white, and make sure everything was fine. But the pair rarely did emotions, not unless one (or both) of their lives were oscillating in No Man’s Land. It was only after Mycroft had shown him the list; that was when he started to notice the downfall was more than mere sulking.

John knew.

He couldn't understand it altogether, but he knew.


	2. A Case Designed for Mr Sherlock Holmes

Even though your words hurt the most  
I still want to hear them  
Every day

\- _Agape, Bear's Den_

* * *

 

There always seemed to be a straightforward way to tell when a human was suffering. Whether it be bloodshot eyes, closed body language or the lack of a laugh where there should be one. This was not the case with Sherlock Holmes. He was elusive. It took a while to notice the changes, but when they came it was complicated to handle.

_“Look after him,” Mycroft had pleaded._

John tried to focus on that.

“This must be, what?” He sucked in air as he thought for a moment, “The third _Christmas_  this year? For your anyway.”

Sherlock was oblivious to his joke.

“On second thought, maybe the first. Yeah, definitely the first... Christmas. Something to get us out of our houses, heh?” John stifled a chuckle. It was not reciprocated, barely acknowledged.

“Five bodies, a storage unit, hardly a trace of a connection. It is somewhat decent,” Sherlock said, without so much as turning his head away from the suffocated body.

John watched as the detective sculpted around the entirety of the corpse with his magnifying glass. He was more manic than normal.  _Jittery_ , as Lestrade had mentioned. He took less than two seconds to zoom in on each section of the body. John didn’t know how much information Sherlock could process in those couple of moments. It was extreme compared to an average genius, but could not be enough time to make a confident deduction.

He let out a groan, running his hands through his hair in defeat. John wanted nothing more than to sit by his side and tell him to take it slow. Upfront approaches didn’t bode well with Sherlock – neither did delicate ones.

John sighed. “This… it’s something else.” He blinked a few time before rotating his neck, and observing white sheets that respectfully covered the bodies. They lay waste on the floor, discarded. No amount of respect would dignify the individual or bring them back.

“A throttling, laceration damage – technically stab wounds, and,” he signaled to the furthest sheet, “Most likely a poisoning. Haven’t had a chance to examine all yet. And none in meticulous detail, but I can hazard a guess how each of them died.”

John wondered how, but was more concerned about the individuals than the method. “Any identification?”

“Not as such. A quick glance at a tattoo ink on the first victim showed they were Bulgarian. I can imagine these are bodies from all over Europe, not murdered locally, but stored here." John blinked, taking in the sudden information, awaiting a vast explanation (one that he rarely received nowadays). "I have never thought of using a storage unit for such purposes, must be of use if you're a serial killer.” He started to sniff the air; the post-mortem smell was apparent. There was something about the air at crime scenes, it felt sticky. There were few other words to describe the atmosphere. “It is a wonder they managed to get so many bodies in here, unnoticed, and how they managed to masquerade the stench, I do not know. Some sort of oxidising agent, I imagine.”

The gory details of these separate murders all in one room. It was like a case designed for Sherlock. His own board game – and it wasn’t Cluedo.

Sherlock’s face was more blank-canvas like than usual today. It dwindled further into paleness as he spoke in a monotone drone, and focused entirely on the puzzle in front of him. Still, this was the most talking Sherlock had done in ages.

As the detective mumbled something under his breath, John stopped himself from questioning him. He knew the only answer he would receive was that it was a _mental note_.

That was perhaps the most worrying warning sign of them all; watching him talk to himself. Once John had heard him yelling at a mysterious entity to  _shut it,_ whilst twisting at his ears. John had mentioned it to Molly recently, and she could only give him a sad smile of recognition. In all John’s time, he never could recall talking to himself in such a conversational, angry manner. Sherlock had been known to talk to that skull if he lacked company and wanted something to refract his theories, but this was not like those conversations. And his actions didn’t seem  _high,_ but that behaviour was not something John could differentiate from the Master of all Disguises. Something addled him. Something big.

_“A case designed for Mr Sherlock Holmes.”_

“Sherlock?”

The defective detective paused, before clarifying his voice. “My apologies. Mental note.”

“Nope, I caught that one. Heard every word.”

Sherlock seemed to have recited John’s precise thought process. Vocalised his visualisations. This wasn’t a coincidence. That wasn’t possible. Cases like this were particular. Cases like this had a purpose.

“I’m well acquainted with mysteries, John. It’s my profession, my hobby. Unlike many other occurrences, cases are a cross that I would willingly bear. I’m familiar with people committing their lurid, and sporadically noble, crimes so to observe me. They believe they are the grand puppeteers. I can tell when someone is trying to get my attention.”

John furrowed his eyebrows. If this was a strategy by some vast criminal intelligence, then there was only one name that exploded into his mind. One name that etched away at his brain like an artist's dry-point needle. One name that had put his life in danger on multiple occasions and had caused him to suffer for two long years. One name that had resurfaced, and that had kept them waiting – all on the edge of their seats, fearsome.

“Oh God,” John exhaled, aside.

Sherlock hadn't perked up with his usual nemesis-induced excitement. John couldn’t see his friend’s face, but he could imagine it: pale as winter and his mouth agape.

“This is Moriarty?”

Sherlock, with no caution, bounded to his feet. “No.”

“Then who?”

“Someone.”

“Someone?! That’s all you've got?”

“I understand  _why_ , John. I merely don’t know _who_. I cannot place my finger.”

“Sherlock,” John started. “Just a moment, and I know it might be unrelated, but you said, back at the airplane, that you knew exactly what his next move was. And, sorry, but you also said he was dead. Anyway yeah, you knew the move, and I thought not to question it. Just I’m getting sick of waiting, and so are you. I'm tired of seeing you bored, Sherlock, bored and drained. It’s been months.”

“It has been a single month, and a couple of weeks. I cannot fathom what you are on about John. Drained?” he bounced around the body. “This case is so pleasantly entertaining. Rest assured, if I was previously bored, currently I am flourishing.”

“ _Sherlock_ …”

“I’m biding our time. The move will come, John. And when it does so, we will not be unenlightened.”

“Okay. We've got to keep going then, cases have been scant. ”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You make crime scenes sound like food to medieval peasants. Perhaps, you could attempt discarding that poetry, and focusing on the case at hand, Doctor.”

John looked at Sherlock, and for the first time in a while their eyes locked. John could only hold the glance for a moment, before pretending to search for Lestrade in the crowd. His façade was likely futile in front of Sherlock, but he couldn't look him in the eye; it hurt. “Okay, then. Just tell me why?”

“A reminder.”

“You could elaborate on that, please.”

The younger man buttoned his coat up, with no interest of walking outside. John wondered how he could even wear it indoors, the humid summer was too much for him in his chequered shirt. “I have no intentions of elaborating on that. I’m focusing on finding the twisted intellect behind this, and putting them securely behind bars.”

And with that, Sherlock walked away. He didn't walk out of the storage unit, but went hastily to investigate the open yellow lockers in the building. John did not take this as an invite to follow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any Comments and Kudos have been greatly appreciated by yours truly. :)


	3. The Longest Time

 

The garden weeds have overgrown  
We've overstayed our welcome here

\- _It Gets Better, Dotan_

* * *

 John found himself gravitating towards Greg. Sometimes the company was the best thing about crime scenes and Sherlock seemed reluctant to any alliance today.

“He’s gone off in a strop, of sorts,” John chuckled.

“Typical,” Lestrade replied and glanced at John, his smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes.

John resisted the temptation to narrate how strange this crime scene was. He knew it wouldn’t be the first time since his arrival, and so resisted the undue repetition. Instead he opted for evading the lack of conversation by looking at his phone. There was a text from Mary: three kisses that she hadn’t put on the end of her last message, and something about him being liable to claim £10,000.

He didn’t reply to either.

“John, this is DS Morgan Kent, he’s new to the Yard,” Greg said, before turning away. He had to direct some officers to investigate the next floor of the building.

The man he had signalled to appeared young enough to be a teenager. He had glimpsed him earlier, and wondered about his identity. A detective who would still get asked for ID at his local pub before revealing his badge, John assumed. 

“First case, officially.” Kent held a hand out, with a forced, awkward laugh.

John reciprocated. Some of his best friendships had started with a handshake of good manners.

“Joh –-“

“Doctor Watson,” he grinned. Then he furrowed his eyebrows after recognising his interruption. “Sorry, just heard a lot about you and Mr Holmes. Didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Just John is fine.” He watched as the man scratched his cheek. A nervous tick of his, he noted. Then Morgan’s eyes traced over the unfamiliar scenery. The dreadfulness of it intruded on the crumpling, freckled skin disguised by the glare of his glasses. “Word of advice for you; something helpful I’ve learnt. There’s no need to apologise for anything at scenes like this. Sign of weakness, Sherlock always says.”

The man gave John a true, good-willed smile after that. And then he said that he’d better “Get back to work.”

John thought the world lacked kindness. We needed more people baring their toothy grins, and offering their advice and philosophies. Some of his teenage Saturday jobs would have been enjoyable if the bosses had swapped sneers for smiles. When he considered Sherlock, however, he knew people didn’t see kindness. There was a difference between kind and good. Sherlock was kind-hearted, when he wanted to be, but he didn’t let manners define him, but he was good – and never made unjust decisions.

He was the best man, in countless ways.

“Better find  _his nibs_ , I suppose,” John sighed. Then he ensured he had regained Lestrade’s attention. “Exactly how massive is this place?”

“Five bloody stories of mammoth floors and countless rooms.”

“Typical.”

One of the officers on the scene was beckoning Lestrade over. He sighed and dithered for a moment between John and the older colleague. “This could be important. I’ll call you if I bump into Sherlock, John. You’re obviously cleared to wander around and scout him out, too.”

“Cheers,” John muttered as the Inspector wandered away.

 

 

Five minutes of searching for the elusive detective reminded him of how inseparable they were. That was during days gone by, but they weren’t that far gone. It was a story John had played a part in on countless occasions. His neighbours always said that Harry, John and their father were joint at the hips, but as years drifted by they separated. Floating away, like continents through the epochs. The last time John had felt close to Harry was when her tears decorated his blazer at their father’s funeral.  Throughout his life John had witness many separations; he had suffered break ups, deaths and many farewells. Each of them left him speculating whether the passing of time could be anything but tragic.

He was on the second floor of the storage unit when his phone started vibrating. Sherlock was calling, and he probably seemed a bit too keen when he picked up in an instant.

“Right, what trouble have you gotten yourself into now?” John said jokingly.

Sometimes Sherlock was slow over phone calls. Distracted by some sort of experiment or revelation. So John awaited his reply.

After fifteen seconds John questioned if the smart phone was playing up and the call had been an accident. After about 30 seconds John was certain he could hear faint breathing. No. Heavy breathing. Muffled hyperventilation.

“What’s happened?”

Another thirty seconds passed by, and John kept the phone to his ear.

“They’re still here.”

The deep voice sent shockwaves through John’s spine. The impulse to make sure he was real, safe and okay, grabs him. It overwhelms him.

“Sherlock where are you?”

“Second right turning on the third floor, then continue to the fifth or sixth locker down on the left,” he gulped. His words were hasty and uncertain enough to ensure John was sprinting. Something rustled and John heard the echoes of a bang. Two bangs, more like thumps. “They locked the door on me.”

“For Christ’s sake, yeah, I’m on my way. Stay hidden.”

 _Well he couldn’t exactly go far_ , John reminded himself.

They said nothing. When Sherlock put himself on the line everyone around could read John’s mind. It was scrawled over a chalk board, and his thoughts concerned a vast fear of loss. He felt terrified to repeat that loss.

“Hurry.”

John’s stomach started to bolt. Phone calls with Sherlock tend to do that to him, especially when something is at stake.

“Sherlock, I’ve got to call Greg. I’ll see you in a moment. Safe and sound, right?”

There was a time when John could glance at the surface of something, before knowing the bite of its sharp edges. And now there were points when John would gaze at Sherlock and feel themselves on the edge of something. A razor, perhaps. When Sherlock said “Don’t go,” John reckoned this would have been one of those moments. (If they had been in the same room).  It caused a frightening upsurge of emotions.

Something always stops them from  _getting somewhere_  in those moments.

Sentiment.

Normally, John would follow his instincts. Hang up the mobile phone and do the responsible thing, but Sherlock's nervous plea was young and innocent.

“Okay, I’m here,” he said. “I'm not going anywhere; we’ll be one moment.”

John couldn’t understand the noise Sherlock made next. It seemed gibberish, a quiet, indignant noise. Desperate. “ _Hvala_.”

That was how it sounded.

They kept the line open, but didn’t need to speak. Sherlock and John always found a way of saying all they needed to, despite the words unspoken. Silence was a very telling thing.

The automatic door that led to the ground floor could not have seemed more inviting. However, John couldn’t forget the matter at hand. Everything but that door seemed meaningless. At that moment everything that gravitated around him was a kaleidoscope of objects that lacked importance.

And after a few urgent yells he began to make his way up the building again.

 

 

Despite military training, John struggled to keep pace with a stampede of Scotland Yarders.

There was an excess of commotion on the floor, and the loudest cries came from a familiar baritone voice. Officers crowded in one area, but some dispersed to hunt for the culprit of the grisly scene.

He could feel the tension in the air as if it was palpable.  All the officers who gathered were staying back; it was like they could see something in front of them about to detonate. John could only focus on Sherlock.

John pushed through the crowd.

_“I swear it wasn’t locked!”_

He barely noticed the small crumple of clothing on the floor as he dashed towards his friend. Sherlock stood there, face red. He was sweating.

Forces could be measured; they were a predictable thing. Velocity, speed and acceleration could all be calculated. Human feelings, however, were not simple. The acceleration of panic was so sudden and so vast that John had misjudged it. His rush to Sherlock was tossed off balance by the sudden obstacle: DS Morgan Kent.

Maybe in a worse condition than Sherlock.

John wavered between the two. Sherlock looked shaken; the fly in the ointment was at it again. But he was standing. As a doctor, John made the rash decision to ignore all wants and quickly tended to the young man with the bleeding face. The man on the floor.

“What’s happened?” John yelled, before remembering that at this proximity shouting was not a wonderful option. “Where did they go?”

“John,” Lestrade started.

“I swear, it wasn’t locked!” Interrupting must have been a habit of the young man.

“It was bolted shut. Inescapable. They’re here; stop fussing over the two of us and carry on searching. It is a matter of urgency,” Sherlock demanded. 

It was less certain that his usual orders.

“Does anyone care to explain what the hell happened here?” John ordered.

Nothing.

Moments passed before the nasal voice of Kent emerged from behind a tissue.

“I heard a whacking noise on the door – went to kick it down, you know? Turns out it didn’t need any force. Just opened. Next thing I know,” he gestured to his face, “I’m all like this.”

“Sherlock? Are you alright now?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock said indignantly. “I was locked in a room. It might seem out of character, but when there’s dead bodies decorating this place certain circumstances are alarming. However, it was locked.”

Sherlock thrived off escaping death. It was a hobby.

“It wasn’t locked. There isn’t even a bolt on the door! No one did this to you because no one guilty is here, not today," he said awkwardly, defending himself.

“Enough. John, we’ll have to take this to the station,” said Lestrade. “No matter how alarming it was there is no circumstance where I can overlook an assault on an officer, as you’re well aware.”

“Sherlock?” John asked, glancing between him and Kent, shocked.

John considered the irony of the new employee’s first official case ending in a manic Sherlock attacking him. There was something that luckily stopped him from laughing. He felt bad for the both of them, but sidestepping sympathy was a necessity with his friend. John did offer Kent a small smile and a hand to help him up, though.

“It was locked. I --”

“Panicked?”

“Protected myself.”

John nodded. He remembered that Sherlock had emotions, but unlike most humans he made decisions based on his incredible mind, not his heart.  Everyone looked at him, disapproving. But when John looked Sherlock in the face he saw for the first time just how traumatised he was. The man was cracking.  John’s heart churned for him. 

“I swear, it was not locked. I didn’t mean to scare you, Mr Holmes. But it _was_ open.”

“I wasn’t  _scared_. Evidently you’re new.” Sherlock observed him: head to toe. “First day?”

Then John tilted his head at the consulting detective, and gave him a  _shut up_  frown.

“Okay,” Lestrade started, “Don’t fight like you’re on a bloody playground. We’ll sort this later. For now, just apologise and be on you way.”

Sherlock muttered something bitter under his breath. A stifled apology. And John felt something muggy in the air when he noticed Lestrade’s disappointed face. Not at Sherlock, but at Kent’s lack of a sorry.

“They’re fine, Greg.”


	4. Won't You Come Closer?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit of a filler, but please hold it out because so much more is coming. Rereading my work, I am a little concerned that I rushed the story line too much, despite it hardly starting yet in what I have uploaded; I just feel a bit boggled. So I will be making quite a few more changes. I'm actually excited to get sharing it though! That being said I am going away for a week, but am taking my laptop so if I do get internet you can expect me to post the updates. (Fingers crossed).

 

No matter how much you are hurting right now  
You know that everything will change in time  
So let me carry your burden  
Let me carry your burden  
When your mouth’s on fire but your mind is cold  
And you’re fanning flames that won’t keep you warm

_\- Burden, Foy Vance_

* * *

 

John was not present when Lestrade (with his new-found mediator skills) tried to sort out the conflict between Kent and Sherlock. He was partly glad, partly miffed. Watching an irked Sherlock was always quite entertaining.

It had not ended in a friendship between the two. Quite the opposite, of course. Sherlock had exited the room first, brushing past John saying something about needing one of Mrs Hudson’s brews and entering his mind palace. Just as John veered off to follow him he overheard a muffled conversation from the DI’s office. He couldn’t make out if he was angry or upset.

He lingered just long enough to hear a young man say, “This job is all I’ve ever wanted and I’m rubbish at it.”

Then John lumbered towards the awaiting cab.

 

 

Poems don’t stop being poems when no one can read, write or listen. The moon doesn’t stop being the moon because of a new lunar phase. Thoughts will remain thoughts even if they are grey and suicidal. John would always be John even when he didn’t speak for weeks after his return from the war. Sherlock would always be Sherlock even if he was breaking at the edges atop a roof and waiting to shatter on his way down.

The detective had, for a reason John could not fathom, decided that lying on the middle of the floor was the latest way of accessing the deepest craters of his mind palace.

To John, 221b was familiar once again.

When he had first returned after the fall it felt troubled. Perhaps memories could haunt places, or haunt minds. No one had ever told him that vulnerable could be coloured in red, and angry too. The house was asleep. There were no screeches from the floorboards. The lamp outside flickered, as it always did, in the same way men blinked when they held back cries. Then Sherlock reappeared and it had slowly become a home again. Warm. Warm from nostalgia. Not just a dusty flat; the man had come back to life, and spread his life in all the places he went and amongst all the people he affected.

Sherlock had a way of doing that, John thought.

His own peculiar way.

“His grip was about the size of mine.” Sherlock looked back to the ceiling. “She struggled, hard, the girl who was stabbed. Glass bottle wounds; they’re familiar. Only one person who could lose their composure and slip up on a case like this. She was the only one who could have been killed locally – and by _him_. She was the East London sort; one side of the head shaved, hip fashion, if you like. All those clothes were original items from Camden market, all hand-crafted, and she had been collecting them for years. This man was large enough and strong enough to subdue her. There were certainly scratches, indications that he had jewelry, but not a ring; he wasn’t married; he- Christ!”

“Sherlock?”

“It’s cold, don’t you think?”

Sherlock did this now. Deduction breaks, almost. He blazed words out faster than fired bullets and then something sliced through them – something insignificant.

John could feel how unclean his hair felt in the seasonal heat. England wasn’t used to it, and neither were most of their bodies. “Yeah it is,” he agreed. Moments later he considered lighting the fire only to decide otherwise. Then he got up to look for a blanket.

“This case, John, it’s – I require more time than usual. My thought process is not at its prime.”

It was getting to that time again, when John had to return home to Mary. Then he remembered the phone call earlier that day, when Sherlock believed he was trapped. _“Don’t go.”_   In John’s mind it was irrelevant whether he was or wasn’t trapped. The one thing that affected John was his _fear_. Genuine fear was a rarity. He’d seen it at Baskerville, but Sherlock had been well after that night. He’d seen it inside the Appledore building, before Sherlock decided to pull the trigger that nearly got him exiled. After that John hadn’t seen a healthy man. He had merely seen the remnants of a broken one.

“Sherlock, I care about this case.” _And I care even more about you,_ he wanted to say. “But I have a wife, a baby on the way and, well, all these commitments.” John bit his lip.

“John, I need time alone with my mind please,” Sherlock replied.

He looked back when he reached the door. “No you don’t.”

John made his way up the stairs, to the landing outside of his old bedroom. His phone signal never seemed to connect in the living room, not recently.

The screen on his phone had cracked a bit around the edges from a case a few months back. Sherlock and he had run. They did that a lot. They had been sprinting towards a suspect, rather than running away. It must have slipped out of John's coat pocket. One of Mycroft’s men returned the phone to the flat later that evening when the killer had been caught. He could get a new one. Savvy phones weren't his priority.

After a single ring she picked up, leaving john wishing he had taken a moment longer to consider the commitment he was making.

 

 

Mary agreed, reluctantly, to John's plea for them to stay a few nights at Baker Street. And soon after John found himself hauling bags, messily packed full of essentials, upwards. Then he was lugging Mary and his unborn daughter up the wooden staircase, too.

“Long time no see, Sherlock,” she said as she entered the living room. A sweet smile directed at the detective soon turned into a grimace as she looked at John. “Mind palace?”

“It seems that way.”

Then she went to bed, leaving John awake past midnight in 221b for the first time in a long time.

 

 

He was still up by one o’clock and wandering around the living room. Sherlock made an irritated noise which left John feeling a little better, for at least he was somewhat responsive. He stood there, looking at Sherlock, for a few moments. He knew he was waiting – he never knew what for.

“It’s sophisticated.”

“This case?” John asked.

He moved to his armchair. They were sitting opposite each other, staring into the opposite pair of eyes. Or rather John staring into Sherlock's. It was enough of a distraction that he did not hear his phone vibrate three times in a row. John remembered the old days: drinking tea, not speaking – it had felt nothing but normal. Out of all the things he had been through with Sherlock, this felt peculiar. Everything was normal, but so twisted; an altered version of their little reality. Sherlock’s mask was on, full of concentration, but his grasp on the arm of the chair was tighter than normal. He sat there calculating something, barely acknowledging John.

“I’m sure you’ve heard me talk like this before. Describing cases like they are something from a gallery. It is how I see them,” he explained, unaware of his surroundings, absorbed in the case. "Creativity at its finest."

“Bit poetic for you, being the grand detective-scientist-hybrid that you are,” John stifled his joke.

“Where the answers of science end the questions of art begin.”

He took a moment to consider this.

“Okay, so what have we got?”

“No trace left in the building. He’s not that clever a man. Maybe he wasn’t there, but something was.”

The moment is robbed of all levity when Sherlock, again, lets out an inhuman noise. He sounded disgruntled, like there was an itch in his mind that he could not reach.

“Sherlock, who is he?”

“I can’t understand why he is doing this.”

John made his way to the coffee table, after he heard the text alert. “Who is he?”

“Neither can I comprehend what he wants from me.”

After accepting the fact that Sherlock was unlikely to give him the answers he desired, John opened up his phone. He found five notifications from Lestrade from the last few minutes.

“Sherlock has Greg text you at all?”

“Who?”

“ _Lestrade_ , I know you know who.”

“Oh yes. He called.”

“But you didn’t think to answer.” It wasn't a question.

“Of course not; more pressing issues were at hand, such as figuring out this puzzle.”

When John clicked the messages he found something desperate:

_Are you awake?_

_Sherlock's not picking up, nothing new there & I knew you were with him tonight._

_We need you both down at Regents Park now_

_Primrose Hill, just sent a car. We'll meet you there._

_It’s urgent._

**Author's Note:**

> You can find my Sherlock based Tumblr as afakegenius; it's become a bit random recently, though. Hope you have a nice day!


End file.
